if this poem sucks, i really don't care. it might be the prompt's fault.
he swoops a kite in backwards loops
on a roof in Pavan Pool
he shows no promise with drums or reeds
so he larks and looks and lulls
the men below exist for night;
in afternoons, they wait
they swallow pale clouds of opium
and spit them up again
downstairs his mother sweats and strains
on a dingy, thinning mat
she’ll teach her daughter to dance and sing
she’ll rest her bones at last
a doctor costing all her savings
holds a kerchief to his face
he steps around the ill, the aimless,
shirks from filthy hands
the sun now sets, and sitars start
the fabric door is nothing
a neighbor tells her it’s a son
the tenement all hears her howling
on a roof in Pavan Pool
he shows no promise with drums or reeds
so he larks and looks and lulls
the men below exist for night;
in afternoons, they wait
they swallow pale clouds of opium
and spit them up again
downstairs his mother sweats and strains
on a dingy, thinning mat
she’ll teach her daughter to dance and sing
she’ll rest her bones at last
a doctor costing all her savings
holds a kerchief to his face
he steps around the ill, the aimless,
shirks from filthy hands
the sun now sets, and sitars start
the fabric door is nothing
a neighbor tells her it’s a son
the tenement all hears her howling